Visuals
by Sabress
Summary: Her tone is a swift dose of weed killer to his growing audacity. Hints at P/O.
1. Visuals

I'm having far too much fun with these little 'moments'...again, I don't own Fringe or anything associated.  
Critiques and comments highly appreciated, and I might add more of these little snippets once I revise them...

* * *

Ch.1 - Visuals

"Undercover, huh?"  
Olivia just nods, digging her way to the bottom of a large box of clothing. Shirts, jeans and jackets are tumbled haphazardly across the length of the small office desk, a stray piece now and then finding its way to the floor.

"Why not wear your own clothes?"  
Peter thumbs through a few articles beside the box, and she misses the puckish glint in his eye as he tugs a lacy black bra from the maelstrom.  
"I don't like wearing my weekend clothes on the job. It just feels…a little weird, I guess."

"Like everything else we do here isn't a little weird," he chuckles.  
A smile curls the corners of her lips. "Yeah. I just hate to think someone might recognize me later." She holds up a light blue blouse, shakes her head, sets it aside.

"What? Like, awkward run-in at your local coffee shop kind of recognition? 'Hey, you're that badass FBI chick I saw the other day, can I get an autograph?'"  
She swats him playfully with a tee-shirt and they both laugh. "Yes, _that _kind!"

He holds the bra up to himself with a wicked grin. "Hey, Olivia. How about _this_?"  
The straight-laced FBI agent takes one look at the garment and shakes her head slowly. "I hate to burst your bubble, but…I think that's a little big for you, Peter."  
"You think?" he pouts teasingly, and she's not sure she's comfortable with the sparkle in his eyes.

"Well, I think it'd be a perfect fit for you, then," he continues, smile stretching dangerously.  
She glances away and is silent for a moment. He can sense he's crossed one of those little red trip lines, but he waits for her to respond anyway, just in case cracking a joke to save his ass isn't necessary.

He thinks the moments have ticked by just a little too long when she speaks, her voice a slow, soft murmur.  
"Problem is...I'm looking for something I can wear in front of the _suspect_...and last I checked I wasn't getting dinner and a movie out of the deal."  
The caution in her tone tells him to stave off now while he still has both legs to walk on, but her expression - queer and not quite decipherable - suggests she might be willing to play along.  
Hell, he has faith in subconscious behavior.

"Is that a maybe, Agent Dunham?"  
A smirk is the only reply he receives, but it's enough to tempt him to test the boundaries again. After all, she isn't shying away or threatening to kill him - for the first time since they've met, she's playing nice.

"In that case...well, not that I _condone _use of the tank, mind you, but-"  
"Not in your lifetime, _sweetheart_."  
Her tone is a swift dose of weed killer to his growing audacity as she brushes past him, bundle of clothes tucked under her arm. Were he a blind man, he would call this game over on that alone, point Olivia, but by the look she's giving him he swears he can hear Dirty Harry somewhere in the background.  
Only when she's safely out of earshot does he mutter his tart thoughts aloud, still contemplating the lacy garment now very much haunting his minds eye.  
"This to the guy who's had to drag your ass, soaking wet and practically naked out of that thing on several occasions - the guy who told you it was a bad idea in the first place - and you blame _me _for the visuals?"


	2. Jack of All Trades

so I felt compelled to keep playing around with the banter and flirting from Visuals, and hence part two...which means I might need to start considering an actual title, seeing as 'Visuals' has become Ch.1...again, crits and reviews are motivation =)

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Ch.2 – Jack of All Trades

"So let me make sure I'm clear on this. This isn't a Fringe division case?"  
Peter shifts his stance against the office door, the wood creaking in protest. Just on the other side, the rustle of cloth and clack of jewelry adds a soundtrack to Peter's knowledge of the situation.

"Exactly. I'm doing this as a favor for some old friends."

He's glad she can't see him rolling his eyes.  
"Favor. Does it come with an I.O.U. for future returns? Oh wait, that's right, our work is _classified_."

"Come on, Peter. It's not as if we have a case of our own right now."  
The rustling has stopped, and he imagines her turning herself about before a mirror, primping and perfecting every detail.  
Do hard-core, gun-slinging FBI agents preen?

"You know, _normal people_ would take the downtime as a blessing and do something for themselves. Say, I don't know, hit the bar with a friend and spend some quality bonding time?"  
The snort tells him she's not convinced.

"That was weak. Even for you."

He smiles half-heartedly. "I'd be on my A-game if I actually got to _enjoy_ my scant few days off, instead of being dragged into a favor for some old bureau buddies, which by the way is _not_ detailed in my job description."

"You don't _have_ a job description, Mr. Bishop."

He feels offended. Almost.  
"Says who?"

A clack of heels sends his imagination reeling.  
"Says the woman who pushed the papers through…although, I think I remember a one-liner, something about 'jack of all trades', it's a little fuzzy."  
A sharper stiletto-esque click, and he's completely re-evaluating what this get-up might look like.  
"And there may have been a footnote about various legally questionable talents."

"Cute. I'll remember that the first time you lock yourself out of your apartment."  
A little soft laughter behind the door tells him she's already considered this scenario.

"So anyway, this case has nothing to do with slime, bodies, genetic mutation or giant cold viruses."  
The silence is a resounding 'yes'.

"Then why am I tagging along for the ride?"

A hesitant silence follows. "I need someone there in case he tries to run."

He considers the implications of this.  
"Which means I'll be stuck sitting in the car. Again."

"No…"  
He shifts a little, curious as to what excuse she has ready to pull out of her ass.  
"…it means you'll be _staying_ in the car for the first time in history.  
My intuition tells me your record is five minutes."

"You give me _far_ too much credit," he chuckles.

"Yeah? …don't tell Charlie. We have a running bet I'd like to collect on."

"Hell, you give me a fifty-fifty cut and I'll put the seat back and sleep for an hour."

"I hope you're joking."

"Funny, I was thinking the same thing."

She knocks quietly on the door. Peter shifts his weight off the hard wood surface and steps away, waiting.  
Half expecting a snarky cat-call, Olivia opens the door slowly, taking a tentative step out.  
What startles her more is his absolute silence.

She shoots him a nervous glance.  
The obvious once-over is flattering and unnerving all at once.  
"Peter?"

He blinks and takes a solid breath, seeming to regain himself.  
What was that about dinner and a movie?

"Did you happen to say there would be dancing?"

She eyes him anxiously. "Peter…"

"Come on, Olivia." His hand brushes her arm, just a whisper, and she hopes those aren't goose bumps she feels prickling across her skin.  
"Don't tell me no one ever taught you to dance. Besides, I look smart in a two-piece," he smiles.

She chides herself for thinking he looks smart in just about anything.  
"I need someone to be able to chase my guy if he runs…"

"I can run in dress shoes," he counters quickly. "You haven't seen me crash a wedding..."  
She shakes her head slowly, smile of disbelief pursing her lips.  
"You're quite the card, Peter."

He grants her a dazzling grin in return. "Jack of all trades, right?"

They lock eyes for only a moment, each silently daring the other to back down, before Olivia turns away with a small smirk and grabs her cell phone from the desk.

"Charlie? We're going to need a black, two-piece suit."

Just as too many times before, Charlie won't ask.


	3. Challenge

y'all rock, thanks for the reviews/comments, watches and favs. here's a little present in return =P  
and for the record, I like how this chap turned out better than the last...for some reason the way I wrote 'jack of all trades' bothers me...I think I was tired...

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Ch.3 – Challenge

Twenty minutes is a very long car ride when your FBI counterpart is wearing a slinky black halter dress.

"Remind me again why I'm not driving?" she huffs quietly. Her slouch is very un-ladylike, and he's reminded of an incensed teenager brought home from the prom early.  
This amuses him greatly, and the twinge of a grin starts at the corners of his lips.

"You want this to look realistic? Then I drive."  
She shoots him a nasty sideways glance. "It's _my_ vehicle."  
"No," he corrects, "it's the FBI's vehicle. Now sit up straight before you mess up your hair."  
He catches the way her lips purse into a smoldering frown, and his own burst into a vicious smile.

As if reading his previous thoughts, she growls "Alright, _dad_."  
Even through his silent hiccups of laughter, he's surprised to see her straighten up and gently fuss with a loose wisp of hair. At some point she must realize how ridiculous she looks, all pout and ire, because a gauche grin begrudgingly overlays her nymph-like countenance.  
He likes her better when she smiles.

When he glances at her again, her eyes are vaguely out of focus, and he knows she's ambling through a mental checklist.  
Still staring out the window at a notepad only she can see, she asks him if he remembers the perp's name.

"Jack the Ripper."  
It's only the sixth time she's asked.  
"Peter!"

Her eyes widen to two black pools of aggravation, and as he groans and rolls his eyes she crosses her arms defensively.  
"Olivia, _relax_. I've done this before, remember? Don't worry your lovely little head about it."  
When he mutters something about her having reminded him a million times, her biting laughter and the fiery glint in her eyes tell him damage control is imminent.  
"Sorry, was that you telling me you like dancing by yourself?"

"So you _were_ going to dance with me!"  
The way he visibly puffs out his chest has her shaking her head, barely containing the grin that wants to melt across her lips.  
"I suppose now you'll never know," she murmurs, eyes taunting.  
The lure dangles, sparkles just behind her pupils.

The con doesn't bite.  
"And I suppose you like fetching your own drinks?"  
A broad smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners just enough to compliment.

Soft laughter escapes her as she glances away.  
"I wouldn't trust you to anyway…by the time you made it back to the table you'd be handing me an empty glass."

"Oh, really? This from the lady who keeps a bottle in her bottom drawer."  
She can feel slight warmth creeping up her cheeks.  
"The same bottle you 'borrowed' a week ago and never returned, you mean."

He shifts in his seat, feigning innocence.  
"Hey, now…I did so return it."  
She snorts.  
"Yeah, _empty_."

"Hey, no need to chide me, princess, you keep up with the best of 'em."  
A little spark goes off in her mind, a match to a fuse.  
"Even you?"

Caught off guard, he turns just a moment to look at her, and the challenge is written so completely in her smile and the feral glint in her eyes.  
He wonders if he still has that cab number in his phone.

"You do realize what you're proposing."  
She grazes him with a sidelong glance, and he's suddenly very aware of just how flattering her dress is, smooth curves of her neck and shoulder no longer concealed behind her golden curtain of hair.  
She's still smiling as she turns away, gazing out at the glistening night.  
"You get me my man."

Felon be damned, he'll get her man.  
He'll have that dance yet.

"Whatever you say, Boss."

* * *

intrigued about that dance? go look up the lyrics to Sting's "If I Ever Lose My Faith In You"...


	4. Trust

so I've been stuck on this chapter for a long. freaking. time. also...I guiltily admit that I wrote the final two chapters before writing this one. I had to get it out of my system. they need some revision, but they're done...  
this chap is more set-up than usual, but I am trying to lay the groundwork for future scenes - for the most part, where Olivia's comfort zone lies, and when Peter starts really pushing the boundaries, which approaches are going to earn him the 'you're a dead man' retaliations...anywho, enjoy. and as always, reviews are love...

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Ch.4 – Trust

"Here we go."  
Olivia straightens in the passenger seat, taking one last cursory glance in the mirror.  
"Showtime."

If at that exact moment someone flipped a switch in a dank apartment in Manhattan synchronicity might be suspect, because the woman who steps from the SUV is beaming and bubbly, each stride a sophisticated swing of sultry curves. Her fiancée has clean money written all over him, and looks like the better end of every good business deal in the past two years.  
If they were posing as anything less, he'd be ashamed.

The moment his arm snakes around her waist, hand perching precariously low on her hip, she shoots him a dubious glance.  
"Trying to make it look realistic," he squeezes through a twenty-volt smile.  
"You're a lying son of a bitch," she manages between bubbling laughter and faux waves to undercover agents modeling as people she pretends to know.  
"Good girl. You _are_ a quick learner."  
For whatever reason – because kicking his ass right then and there would probably blow their cover, he assumes – she frosts him with a terse smile and lets it slide.  
A sinister text message only half-jokingly reminds him she knows where he sleeps at night, and black-cat curiosity simply has to know what will happen if he keeps pushing buttons.

He pulls out all the stops: holds the door for her and takes her coat, guides her to their table – his hand has wandered its way to her lower back – and pulls out the chair for her. When he leaves to find them both a drink, she mulls over how pitiable her situation must be that it takes a con working the room to have a man treat her like royalty.

"Oh, _sweet-heart_."  
The sing-song tune doesn't hide the familiar sarcastic bite, and it puts her on edge. He's enjoying this far too much.  
"That had better be the only pet name you invent for the evening," she mutters as she glances up. Standing before her with a glass of champagne in each hand, suit crisper than fresh snow, clean-shaven and expression so smug she thinks his ego might float him away on the breeze if she lit a match, he's the portrait of big money.  
"I contemplated 'sugarplum', but I'm well aware of the danger you've got tucked into that garter." As he hands her a drink and seats himself beside her, he adds "and I don't just mean your legs."  
If a discreet kick to the shin hurts him any, he's very good at hiding it.  
"And 'sweetheart' is my _favorite_, after all," she murmurs acidly.  
The warning may as well be in black and yellow tape across her body.  
He scoots imperceptibly away from her, making a mental note that the only time stilettos feel good is…never.  
"I'll keep that in mind, _darling_."

Inevitably the successful entrepreneur and his ravishing fiancée are forced to mingle with guests not carrying standard FBI badges under their lapels. Peter talks divisive politics amongst the cigars while Olivia dives head-first into Prada and popular gossip. Initially indifferent to the conversation taking place before her, she finds herself pleasantly intrigued when these powerful women begin talking politics of their own – both foreign and domestic – and listens intently as they share stories of raising children and raising husbands amid media slander and gender bias. She learns quickly that at least a third of the women here are on the guest list of their own distinction – successful business women, elected officials – and their husbands are the ones tagging along. Feeling confident among women of stature and in her own success as a career-woman, she suspects she'd feel even more at home if she'd walked into this party as FBI.  
Peter isn't faring nearly so well.  
When the men begin discussing their collections of expensive cars and Peter's thoughts take a crooked turn – he's memorizing who brought what car to the party, where they parked, and formulating how each car can be torn apart for a flawless hotwire job – Olivia mercifully appears at his shoulder to deliver him from temptation.  
One arm draped over his shoulder, she quietly leads him away.

"You look a little distracted."  
Frustration settles into a mild hum as he reminds himself with a silent mantra that Peter Bishop doesn't crash gala events and trade expensive cars in mob circles anymore.  
"Ten more minutes and you would have been politely asking me to hand over my consultant credentials."  
Her stomach twists a little at the myriad of possibilities that statement implies.

"Your last soirée didn't involve making charity donations, I take it."  
"My intentions were admittedly less than chivalrous."

She shoots him an earnest, warning glance, voice all but a whisper.  
"The time to revert back to more…_colorful_ career choices was several months ago, when you said you were going to leave, before I handed you those credentials. Don't swan dive on me now."

He doesn't look her in the eye, doesn't say a word but he nods. She waits as he closes his eyes a moment, takes a deep breath. When he does finally look at her, she can see the spark returning to the static blue of his eyes and the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  
"I believe we still have a criminal to catch."  
"Peter…" she lays a tentative hand on his arm, and the question is all to clear.

_Can I trust you?_

He squeezes her hand gently.  
"I've got your back."

Hazel eyes scrutinize him carefully, reading over every line and detail in his face, and he thinks that among her strange assortment of gifts, 'human lie detector' might fall unnoticed somewhere between freakish number recall and turning off lights with her mind.  
After a few moments her posture relaxes and her expression softens, and he swears he catches a fleeting glimpse of what trust looks like in the green highlights of her eyes.

"Let's get to work."

* * *

...and as a sign of good faith that I won't be going on uber-hiatus again, a little teaser for your viewing pleasure:

"'I'm sorry about your leg, earlier…'  
'No, I'm sorry. There are far better ways to compliment beautiful women than vulgarity.'  
And here he is again, pushing buttons, carelessly scuffing _the line_ to a blur with the sole of his shoe.  
He wonders if it isn't due to the contrast to his earlier behavior - brash and uncalled for, he admits - but she doesn't push him away.  
Quite the opposite.  
The consultant takes a steadying breath as the wary agent softly rests her cheek against his shoulder."


End file.
